“In our best moments, we are no less than a garden that serves life, not ourselves.” Benjamin Vogt

I think Larry’s a little envious of my pet project, Grow Damn It, he’s been acting rather strange lately, but I thought I’d let you decide.

One day several odd packages arrive at the house from Amazon. Packages I did not order. Instead of Cheryl Oreglia stamped on the label, they identified Lawrence Oreglia as the owner. They are big and heavy.

My interest is piqued. Especially since I got interrogated last week about the adorable black and white toothbrushes, I ordered for the guest bathroom.

We all agree curiosity killed that cat, but I’ve also heard satisfaction brought it back. Come hell or high water, I’m going to satisfy my curiosity about those mysterious packages or die trying. 

When Larry pulls up in his truck, he says, “Great, my packages arrived.”

I’m like, “What arrived?”

He ignores my question and starts opening the boxes on the kitchen floor, oblivious to the fact they have recently been mopped. This is a rather narrow space, I act nonchalant but stay within view of the ritual unveiling of these perplexing boxes.

The first thing he pulls out is a jumper seat for a four-wheeler-type vehicle. One, we don’t have a four-wheeler that I’m aware of, and two, we are not purchasing one in the near future. We have a tandem bike, and that’s as off-road as we’re going to get. 

He looks slightly dismayed, but that’s the look he’s adopted since retirement, so his behavior is not alarming until he starts cussing, stomping about the kitchen as if he lost his marbles, and roughly tossing the poor little seat back in the now mangled box.  

After some sleuth-like deductions, I realized they sent us the wrong package, so we now have a jumper seat to return, and someone else has box one of Larry’s mysterious stuff. I love how life is always one step ahead of us. Often forcing us to slow down, make adjustments, and, when necessary, apply patience. Hello, universe, you’re messing with the wrong guy.

The next thing I know, he has package number two down on the floor as if he is about to wrestle with it on the kitchen rug. You know how they get into that crouched stance, then freeze until the ref blows the whistle, after which total mayhem ensues. I grab a towel just in case I have to end the match. 

Within minutes he’s struggling with these giant metal pieces and promptly carries them out to the backyard. I follow from a safe distance with the towel. 

An aside. Two doves recently made a nest in my succulent planter that is attached to the wall on the outside patio. They have laid two eggs that they are gallantly trying to protect. It takes two weeks to hatch dove eggs, and we’ve been chasing away not only crows but a falcon that has decided our patio has added some interesting dinner options.

As Larry is banging around with his metal sheets, he scares the mama away, and now I have to be vigilant until she returns.

I should also make you aware of the contention we’re currently dealing with about our plans for the backyard. I know, shocking as it seems, Larry and I are not rolling merrily, merrily along. 

Here’s the problem. He needs glasses. My vision for the yard involves a new table that seats twelve, like the apostles, but not really. We just happen to have a large family that also enjoys sitting around the table and partaking in some blessed bread and wine (with a Martha-like mother, but that’s another blog). 

The images in my mind include a built-in fireplace to keep the occupants warm on those cool California nights but will also add some much-needed ambiance to the space. I know. It’s a brilliant vision. One that is not appreciated by everyone. And by everyone, I speaking of the one in need of glasses.

I should add my vision has made absolutely no progress. In fact, it’s been displaced with a new plan, as if it was of little or no consequence. But let’s not go on a total rant. The last thing I want to do is sway your opinion. 

The next thing I know, Larry rents a gismo from the local toolshed and proceeds to remove a twelve-foot by twelve-foot square of well-groomed grass from the back of the yard. When I dared to ask him about this appalling behavior, he said, “I’m putting in a garden.”

I said, “A garden?” You always want to repeat any shocking news that someone tells you so you can be sure you got it right. 

He responds, “That’s right. I’m growing vegetables this summer.”

I said, “What about my table and fire feature?”

“We have to have food to eat.”

“We have to have a place to eat.”

“Life is about doing things that matter first.”

“That’s what I’m talking about.”

“Honey, let’s not put the cart before the horse.”

“You’ve been listening to too much Luke Bryan.”

He finally laughs and says, “Here’s to the farmer.”

“Here’s to the farmer’s wife.”

And so it goes. 

The next thing I know, a huge truck shows up at the house and dumps a ton of gravel right next to a pile of the smellest compost you have ever encountered in your entire life not five feet from my front door. 

Did I mention I’m hosting Easter this year, apparently at the small table with no fireplace, but we’ll have the succinct pleasure of aromatic chicken shit to go with our roasted lamb. 

I’m rather displeased and not hiding it well. 

The topping on the cake, Larry ordered a pair of overalls to complete his suburban farmer’s look, I’m completely baffled. 

Those mysterious boxes contained four huge galvanized garden boxes for the vegetable garden he has conjured up for the backyard. There are also two circular containers that he has reserved for flowers at the entrance of the garden, and the pile of gravel will be spread between the containers to keep them neat, and you can walk on it. 

Are you getting the chills, or are we all coming down with the flu?

I suppose retirement is like gardening. We’re sowing the seeds of our savings that we’ve been growing for decades and spending them on bougie compost and tomato seeds. Does that sound like complaining? It’s really more of an observation. 

Okay, I agree, the metaphor is annoying, but I’m having trouble stopping myself. If retirement is a chance to redesign your life into something new and different, he may have missed the mark.

He put a call to his friend Greg who has a wicked garden in Napa, asking for planting advice. He called Sid to discuss irrigation options. And after his buddy Jim went to a five-hour glass on growing tomatoes (What the hell could they be teaching you for five hours?), apparently, there was a late-night emergency call about bougie compost. 

I recently discovered specialized dirt is all the rage in gardening circles and is currently a hot topic for cocktail parties. Who knew?

This outrageously expensive organic compost is created by combining organic waste such as food scraps, yard waste, mushrooms, and other organic materials (chicken poop) in a compost bin or pile. Over time, the organic matter breaks down into a nutrient-rich soil amendment that can be used to improve soil fertility, enhance plant growth, and reduce the need for synthetic fertilizers. 

There are so many things you will encounter in this life that no one ever needs to know. Bougie compost is one of them.

And now he wants to repurpose my dad’s sign, Grow Damn It, for his new project. I think that sort of nails the conundrum. Or maybe, like me, he wants to leave a legacy behind, and what better legacy is there than a beautiful garden? 

After retirement, I thought we would spend our days at leisure, me writing books, Larry riding bikes, both of us hosting family dinners, playing with the grandkids, and traveling about the world. Apparently, Larry thought he was going to spend his days playing in the dirt with the grandkids. What he didn’t know is he would actually be spending all his time and money at the hardware store buying tools, supplies, and bougie dirt. 

Imagine for a minute, you’re in the garden with Larry, surrounded by sturdy galvanized containers. Larry is holding the garden hose and casually spraying the recently planted seeds. This is how he gardens, fifteen minutes of effort followed by fifteen minutes of staring at the sky. What the hell is he thinking about? Certainly not my patio table.

Preparing for an amazing, incredible, mind-blowing retirement involves more than just making sure you’ve saved enough money, have your healthcare needs covered, and have your new budget scoped out. Larry read an article about increasing your wealth after retirement (of course he did). There is only one way to do that. Decrease the monthly nut. Drop the trunk clubs, duplicate cloud storage plans, 4,000 television channels, getting your nails done, your body waxed, and those fancy gym memberships. No more country clubs, magazine subscriptions, or Amazon Prime. Pay off loans and credit cards, and don’t buy anything. 

What the hell happened to his kick-ass retirement plan? I blame the snake, or maybe he’s trying to get back into the proverbial garden, aren’t we all? But we’ll need a table. Just sayin…

I suppose gardens remind us to be patient and generous because that is what they are all about. They have no delusions of grandeur. They know not what they are but humbly follow their genetic road map. They don’t have opinions about the other vegetables, nor do they want to mingle with the neighbor’s vines. They don’t envy or desire anything. They sort of surrender themselves to their given destiny, offer up all their fruits, and have this incredible potential for renewal. It’s practically the definition of love. No wonder Larry is so smitten. 

How do you determine the success of your retirement? I suppose you have to learn to appreciate the luxury of time, take advantage of new opportunities that come your way, and try and make a difference, if not in the world, in your own backyard. Then share your bounty with others. That is the ultimate yardstick for measuring any sort of success.

I’m warming to the idea of a bountiful garden with vegetables to share and flowers to arrange.

Maybe gardens are just little squares of dirt, organic compost, and seeds that require planning, watering, and weeding. You couldn’t come up with a better metaphor for the future. There is definitely planning involved (although Larry’s been removed from that committee), a fair amount of shit to deal with, nurturing the seeds of possibility, pulling out the weeds, and watering. Maybe with an encouraging sign like Grow Damn It, you’ll have adopted the perfect philosophy for life.

I’m Living in the Gap, rocking my new overalls, I’d love to know how you plan on watering your future? 

Here’s the link to Grow Damn It on Amazon. Read and enjoy all the reviews. Write one if you are so inspired.

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